Lonesome Duck
by JWood201
Summary: Mary Ann has a western dream of her own after Gilligan tells her about the Marshal and his exploits. During "The Sound of Quacking."


During Season 1's "The Sound of Quacking," after Gilligan's Marshal dream sequence.

_"Think of our future! You could be killed!"_

**Lonesome Duck**

_Clu-clump. Jingle._

_Clu-clump. Jingle._

_It's a sound so familiar that she's stopped paying attention to its echo. Her ears and her mind have tricked her so many times since he left that she doesn't dare assume that it's real anymore._

_She hears it in the sounds of life beyond her window, in the din of unnamed voices. She hears it when she's awake, when she's asleep, and when she's in that space in between, in the foggy liminal space between knowing everything and knowing nothing._

_Clu-clump. Jingle._

_Footsteps. Slow, casual footsteps. Slow even when they're in a hurry. Slow with a sense of vaguely uncomfortable authority and an appreciation for observing the world around him. Slow with a deliberate care to stay upright._

_Clu-clump. Jingle._

_Boots on wooden floorboards. Slightly too big boots on wooden floorboards. Dusty, brown boots, fraying at the seams, toes wiggling against the leather through the holes in their socks. Boots - _

_Clu-clump. Jingle._

_With spurs._

He told me about his dream. This morning on the beach while we were mending a fishing net, he at one end and I at the other, slowly working our way toward each other.

He was chattering on in an endless, loosely connected stream of topics, when he suddenly found a point of focus and I sat up and paid attention. He had never told me about one of his dreams before, but I knew he dreamt, often and vividly.

I can hear him sometimes if he takes a nap in the middle of the day. His voice drifts through the open window into the clearing where I'm working. From the sound of it, he has grand adventures in his dreams. He calls out, usually in an affected voice, fighting foes and vanquishing villains and I smile as I make lunch.

Once I heard him call my name in an oddly frantic mixture of panic and pining. I jumped and nearly dropped my sewing as my insides seized for a moment and he didn't look me in the eye at dinner that night.

I've dreamed of him telling me about one of his dreams. It's odd that I've yet to have a dream in which he figures, as himself or as a fictional character, yet I've dreamt of hearing his dreams, of being vicariously transported to the magical land inside his imagination where the colors are more vibrant, the sounds more musical and the smells more intoxicating.

This morning he took me through this particular dream in great detail, remembering everything from the texture of his shirt to the tangy smell of Mamacita Howell's Famous Duck Gravy. He painted a picture in my mind and if he weren't such a terrible speller he could write fantastic children's books.

It was a western. And he was the hero.

_Clu-clump. Jingle._

_Clu-clump. Jingle._

_She ignores it as she stands at the stove. She knows it's not real. When he leaves town she never knows when he's coming back. Or if he's coming back._

_It's her uncle, rifle balanced on his shoulder, eyes narrowed, asking her if _he's_ around._

_It's her father haunting her from beyond the grave. Even that would be more believable than _him_ turning up so abruptly._

_It's the former deputy limping in to ask for his badge back. He'll lower his eyes and take off his hat and call her "ma'am" and excuse himself for interrupting her. He'll sniff the air greedily and then compliment her cooking even if it is only a pot full of air and hot water, the only things available in abundance during this blight. She'll plant her hands on her hips and he'll stammer and ask if there's any way she could possibly forgive him. She'll say it wasn't up to her and he'll nod sadly and shuffle out, dragging his bad leg, but she'll call him back and ask him to stay and eat anyway._

_It's anyone else. But it's not him._

"The Skipper was my deputy," he told me with a grin and a twinkle in his eye. "I fired him," he added and we giggled. "He had a knife and fork in his holster, so I made him turn in his star," he announced, puffing out his chest.

"Good for you," I said and he grinned so hard his dimples sunk into his cheeks. I winked at him. "Marshal."

He blushed and lowered his head so far over the net that all I could see was the little button on the top of his hat.

_The footsteps stop, just like they always do, and she sighs. _

_Despite her better judgment, she always allows herself to hope, just the tiniest bit, and she's always disappointed. She's always alone and he's always gone, Lord knows where, singlehandedly playing the hero._

_Everyone else in town is against him, but he always stands tall in his big boots, insisting that he only needs one person to be on his side._

_And she's always on his side and by his side. Except when he's gone, and then she's alone. Alone against an entire selfish town, weathering the looks from ladies in the street, peppered with questions from the children at the schoolhouse, enduring the taunting 'advice' hurled at her from the porch of the saloon where the flame-haired dancing girl is leaning against the railing fanning herself with an accordion of black lace._

_But she's proud to be alone._

"Ginger was there," he said, frowning into the fishing net.

He didn't elaborate and I laughed. "And?"

"And what?"

"What did she do?"

He scowled. "She was just being Ginger. She had a crazy dress on and brought all sorts of stuff from the saloon. She tried to get me drunk so she could get what she wanted."

"She sounds sneaky."

"But I got rid of her." He sat up straighter in the sand. "I told her I made two promises to the Mayor when I became Marshal – not to drink and not to have any fun while I was on the job." He nodded decisively and pulled more of the net toward him.

"That's very professional, Marshal."

"That's right. I had to be to face a town full of underhanded people."

"Everyone in the town was bad?" I asked in disbelief. I finished mending my part of the net and set it aside, pulling more of the ripped portion toward me. The still-torn section stretched between us and I scooted a few inches closer to him.

"Well, no. Almost everyone." He paused for a few seconds and then began barreling forward in his tale, quicker than ever. "The Professor and Mr. Howell were in the lynch mob, see? The Professor was dressed all in black and Mr. Howell used gold bullets! Mrs. Howell was on their side, of course. She was dressed like a Spanish lady, but I'm not sure why. She had all sorts of duck recipes ready, like she didn't believe I could stop them. None of them did."

_She hears a noise behind her and she freezes. It's a rustling, a shifting from foot to foot. A floorboard creaks._

_She raises her wooden spoon from the thin soup she managed to scrape together from what's left in the general store, but doesn't turn from the stove._

_Clu-clump. Jingle._

_Clu-clump. Jingle._

_She's been tricked before._

_Her hand tightens around the spoon as someone nervously clears their throat behind her. Her knuckles turn white as she holds on for dear life to something solid. The person takes a deep breath._

_A rush of air hits the back of her neck and explodes in a cloud of warmth, slipping down her spine and sliding over her shoulders and down her arms, raising goose bumps in its wake, and she feels her eyes prickle with tears before he even speaks._

"_Howdy, ma'am."_

"It was in black and white," he said, "like one of those western pictures at the movies. Your hair was black, but your blouse was white. Everything else was kind of in between." He studied me for a moment, as if he was remembering how I looked in his dream. It made me nervous to watch him stare at me so intently but not know exactly what he was seeing. He abruptly lowered his gaze and stared intently into the depths of the tangled fishing net. "My pants were grey and my shirt was grey, and my vest was a darker grey than that..."

I listened to his monologue about how there are at least fifty different shades of grey, resisting the burning desire to urge him forward to the part where I figured into this tale. Then he changed his mind and decided it was more like shades of brown, like the beginning of _The Wizard of Oz_, which was funny because the town in his dream was in Kansas. I perked up at this coincidence and humored his new monologue about the warm sepia that pervaded his dream like a gentle dust storm rolling through the prairie, coating everything in its wake in a thin layer of brown.

"Everybody wanted to eat her," he said at last, squinting up against the sun at the dark figure flying in circles above our heads. He tugged on the line tied to his wrist; she looked down and quacked indignantly at the interruption. "Except you."

Emily landed clumsily and waddled right into the middle of the fishing net. "Of course not," I said, reaching out to run my fingers over her soft downy wings. She ruffled her feathers and settled down between us, quacking softly in contentment. "So who was I in your dream?" I finally asked as casually as I could.

He shifted awkwardly and then made a big show of pretending to get comfortable in the sand. He shrugged overdramatically. "Miss Mary Ann," he answered simply.

"_Miss Mary Ann," a low voice says and the spoon clatters to the floor._

_She turns slowly and tries to smile through a face contorting with the threat of tears. "Marshal," is all she gets out before she throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He laughs and staggers backward. The dam finally breaks and his neck and the collar of his shirt are soaked immediately. "You're back."_

"_A'course." He smiles cheekily and she can hear it in his voice. "Maybe I should go away more often."_

"_No!" She tightens her arms around him and he laughs again. He finally returns the embrace, hugging her tightly with arms that ache from being empty for too long._

_He walks a few paces to the table in the center of the room. He sets her on the edge and tries to pry her arms from around his neck. "Alright. Come on now. No cryin'. Lemme look atcha." He pulls back from her, but she keeps her hands clenched tightly around the front of his vest. He peers into her face. Her eyelashes are drenched and fresh tears spring from the corners of her tightly closed eyes and roll down her cheeks._

"_Where's my beautiful girl?" She shakes her head vigorously. She sniffles loudly and wetly and he winces. "Come on now," he laughs, pulling his handkerchief from his back pocket, dusty from the prairie. He shakes it out and particles explode in shimmering clouds, swirling and cavorting in the afternoon sun streaming through the window beside them. He wipes her tear-streaked cheeks and she calms slightly. Her features unknot and she looks up at him, eyes wide and their wetness sparkling in the rays of sunlight. _

_He grins. "There she is."_

I laughed. "Who's Miss Mary Ann?"

He shrugged again, broadly. "You."

"Gilligan."

"The Marshal's friend."

"_And?_"

"And _what_?" he asked too loudly.

"And what did I do?" Emily scooted closer to me and I scratched her neck. "What was my purpose in your dream?"

"Your purpose?" He thought about this for a moment. He finally looked up from where Emily was sitting beside me muttering to herself. "You were on my side."

I smiled and reached out to briefly squeeze his knee. "Always."

"_Come on now. You know I gotta run the lynch mob outta town every time they do somethin'. Who else is gonna do it? My deputy with his bad leg? Miss Ginger?" This gets a laugh and he smiles. "I have to do it. It's my job. I did it when they shot the Mayor. I did it when they burned the schoolhouse." He shoves his wet handkerchief back into his pocket. "Right after I saved the teacher."_

_She sniffles and makes a show of straightening his vest without letting go of it. "You left all the children behind."_

_He nods. "That's right. This town has a whole mess of little hooligans, but only one lady to teach 'em right. Besides, they all got out." He pushes a lock of her hair back into place. "That was my second day as Marshal and my third day in town. When I broke down that door and saw you helpin' them kids climb out the window, I said, 'Hot dog, that there's a strong woman. The Marshal needs a strong woman to be on his side.' I know it ain't easy, but you're still on my side, right?"_

_She runs her fingers over his face, stubbly from being out on the range for days. She cups his cheek in her palm. "Always."_

"So what did Miss Mary Ann do?" I asked. I knew I was pressing him for details, but I've learned that the information he chooses to withhold is usually the most interesting.

"Well, she didn't want me to fight the lynch mob either." He looked down at the duck sleeping beside me. Her head was resting on my knee and I was absently running my hand over her soft back. Out of everyone besides him, she knew she was safe with me.

"Why didn't she want you to fight?" I asked as casually as possible, being sure not to refer to Miss Mary Ann in first person.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "She was just worried about me, I guess. Everyone else would've gone straight through me to get to Emily, but Miss Mary Ann was all, '_Think of our future! You could be killed!_'" He recounted the lines in an affected feminine western accent and we both laughed until the words sunk in and I slowly quieted. My hand froze on Emily's back. I felt it rise and fall as she breathed in oblivious sleep.

When he glanced up and caught me staring at him he abruptly sobered, quickly looking down into the net and working more diligently than ever before. I wasn't sure what my face looked like at that moment, but I was sure it was betraying me somehow.

"Our future?" I repeated before I could stop myself, mentally bracing myself for a reaction.

"Oh, yeah," he responded quickly, surprising me, "They were probably supposed to go butterfly hunting or something the next day."

He shrugged and his eyes flickered up to mine briefly, checking my reaction. He smiled uncertainly and then bent over the net again.

"_Miss Mary Ann." He clears his throat uncertainly and she looks up, brow furrowed curiously. "I've been thinkin' about somethin' you said to me the last time I saw you." He pushes his hat back on his head thoughtfully. "I had a lotta time to think while I was out there and I came to realize that ... well, I reckon I spend most of that time thinkin' about you."_

_She smiles. "You do?"_

_He nods seriously. "Yes, ma'am. I even had a dream about you. Except we was on an island and your skirt was a lot shorter."_

_She raises one eyebrow. "Careful, Marshal."_

"_Sorry." He smiles sheepishly, then frowns in concentration._

"_Honey, what are you tryin' to say?" she asks slowly, the way she asks the five year olds at the schoolhouse when they can't quite find the word they're looking for._

"_I've just been thinkin'. It ain't right the way we go around together, even though we're doin' things proper and I behave myself. I'm an example for the town, even though none of 'em like me except for you. And your uncle's been carryin' around that gun and giving me the stink eye whenever he sees me, but I ain't even kissed you or nothin'. And I –"_

"_Stop." He quiets and looks at her, distress clearly painted across his face. She looks worried. Sometimes it's hard to know which way his mind will take him at any given time. She tugs on the front of his vest. "Marshal?"_

_He untangles her hands from his vest and holds them both tightly. "I've been thinkin' about our future."_

_He doesn't elaborate and she watches him carefully. "You wanna go butterfly huntin' tomorrow?" she asks with a cautious smile._

"_Yes. No! Well, yes, but that's not what I was thinkin' about."_

"_Then what were you thinkin' about? You're makin' me nervous."_

"_I was thinkin' that maybe it would – that we – that you might wanna get married." He swallows hard. "To me," he elaborates quickly._

We worked in silence for a long time, until the net was completely mended and we met in the center, closing up the last of the holes. Emily was still asleep beside me, muttering something that we would never understand. Maybe she had a nice clumsy boy duck somewhere that she was dreaming about.

"So how did it end?" I asked, watching him realize that he had tangled Emily's line, which was still tied around his wrist, up in the net.

He scowled and yanked on the line, pulling his arm way back behind him, dragging the net along with it. The net slid across the grass and out from under Emily, who quacked in surprise as she was unceremoniously dumped onto her back.

"Sorry," he mumbled. Emily righted herself, ruffled her feathers back into their proper place, and waddled around behind me to safety, quacking incessantly at him.

"How did your dream end?" I asked again as he untied the line from his wrist and began picking at the net, looking for places where he could separate the two.

He sat up straight and grinned. "I ran the lynch mob out of town, of course."

"Of course." I smiled back at him.

"And Miss Mary Ann told me I was wonderful," he added, puffing out his chest.

"Of course." I rolled my eyes for his benefit and he laughed.

"And then Emily fell out of the sky and the Skipper woke me up." He shrugged as if this wasn't an unusual sentence and went back to picking at the net.

"She fell out of the sky?"

"Yeah." He squirmed. "I kinda ... well, I –" He learned in close, eyes darting around to make sure no one else was around. "I shot her," he whispered.

My eyebrows flew up. "You _what_?"

He was already shaking his head vigorously, his hands flapping in the air in retraction. "It was an accident!"

"Gilligan!"

"Shhh! Don't let her hear you!" He craned his neck to peer around me where Emily was poking her bill through some leaves, still pointedly ignoring him.

"How could you shoot her in your dream?" I demanded, eyes wide.

"It was an accident!" he insisted defensively. "You were all, '_Oh, Marshal, you were wonderful!_' and I shot my gun in the air in celebration and I pushed my hat back and hitched up my gunbelt –." Here he demonstrated this rather manly display from his spot sitting in the grass amidst a mess of fishing net. "I turned around and all I got out was, '_Miss Mary Ann, I –_' and she fell right in front of us!" He looked up at me, arms outstretched toward the ground as if he were pointing at Emily's body. Behind me, she quacked happily. His eyes were huge and guilty, imploring me to forgive him.

I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it, he looked so upset. "Oh, Gilligan," I sighed. "She's fine!"

"I know," he huffed a little indignantly, pouting as he straightened his hat on his head. He sighed. "I mess everything up, even in my own dreams."

"I wouldn't say that." Emily waddled past me and right into his lap, lifting her head to quack directly into his face. She had forgiven him already. "You protected her from everyone. You ran the lynch mob out of town. Sounds like you even got the girl at the end."

He shrugged, overly casually, ducking his head to focus on Emily. "No. The Skipper woke me up right after Emily fell."

"Hmm, I don't know," I began, drawing the words out so he knew I was teasing him. "What were you gonna say to her right before Emily fell? Something about their future perhaps?" I cocked one eyebrow at him and smirked.

He raised his head and watched me with his special sort of intensity and I got the feeling that he was seeing me as I appeared in his dream again. "Butterfly hunting," he reminded me finally, almost in a whisper.

I managed only half a smile back at him and nodded. "Yeah. Butterfly hunting."

_Butterflies dance inside her, banging against her rib cage, speeding up her heart, filling her up, choking her, cutting off the flow of air to her head until she feels quite dizzy._

_He stares at her, his hopeful smile gradually slipping off his face until she manages to nod._

_He's not quite sure what's happening. He nods slowly. It's a question._

_She nods vigorously. The words still won't come, but she grins at him and watches realization slowly dawn on him._

_All at once he throws his arms around her waist and lifts her off the table. She shrieks and clings to his neck as he spins her around the room. He whoops like a young cowhand, turning in dizzying circles. She laughs as her skirts swirl through the air behind her, yards of fabric spinning in her wake._

_He staggers to a stop and sets her down, weaving slightly with vertigo. She laughs and reaches out to him, but he lurches away and crashes into the table. He presses his palms on the top for a moment to steady it, then hesitantly takes his hands away to see if it's going to stay put._

_He turns around and when he sees her he hollers again, as if he had momentarily forgotten what's happened. He snatches his hat from his head and tosses it into the air and then rushes forward and scoops her up in his arms again. He only spins her around once this time and she hugs him tightly, feeling him laugh, the deep sounds reverberating through both of their bodies._

"_Marshal, relax!" she says when the words finally appear._

"_Miss Mary Ann, this is the best thing that's ever happened." He pulls back and looks down at her. "I didn't care if everyone else in town always got mad at me and tried to get me to leave. I stayed for you."_

_She slips her arms around his waist and snuggles against his chest. She watches the badge pinned to his vest glint in the sunlight and then closes her eyes. His shirt smells like dirt and sweat and wilderness and it's incredibly comforting. He wraps his arms around her shoulders and she feels one of his hands on her head, strong and comforting, with his fingers in her hair._

"_Marshal?"_

"_Yes, ma'am?"_

"_I just thought of somethin'."_

"_What's that?"_

"_We're engaged now and ... and you ain't even kissed me or nothin'," she reminds him coyly. He's quiet and she tilts her head to peer up at his face. His eyes are wide and she laughs. "You don't have to keep that second promise anymore."_

_His eyebrows shoot up. "I don't?"_

_She shakes her head. "Uh uh."_

_His mouth tips into a lopsided smile and he pulls back to look down at her. "Oh. Well, in that case," he says with a certain amount of swagger. She laughs and rolls her eyes. The hand in her hair moves to the nape of her neck and cradles her head. She grips his shirt as his palm brushes her cheek and she raises her face to him._

_Her eyes flutter shut as he begins leaning toward her. She can feel him coming closer, sense him drawing near and she smells him, feels his breath on her face, and her fingers begin trembling so she grips his shirt tighter. He descends agonizingly slowly and her lips part, tingling with anticipation of their first kiss._

"_Marshal?" she whispers when she realizes the kiss isn't coming._

"_Yes, ma'am?"_

"_Where are you?"_

"_I'm scared," he blurts out and instantly regrets it._

_She frees one hand from his vest, the thick fabric retaining the shape of her fist before slowly morphing back into its proper form. She traces the contours of his cheekbone and chin, letting her fingers dance over his face as she commits every feature to memory. "Don't be." She rises up on her toes and leans into him._

_Their foreheads and noses touch and he slips his arm around her tiny waist, pulling her to him. His lips barely brush hers, unsure, light as a feather, like butterflies' wings, and then again, a bit more confidently. She sighs and presses her lips softly to his. She detangles her other hand from his shirt and slides it around his torso under his vest. She feels his ribs through the rough cotton and flattens her hand against his back, pulling herself tighter against him._

_His lips are softer than they should be after being out on the prairie for weeks. They're much softer than the callused hand gently cradling her face. They fall into a familiar rhythm, as if this was their hundredth kiss, thinking about nothing yet anticipating everything._

_The kiss deepens and a tingling appears in the tips of her fingers where they touch his shirt and his cheek. It creeps through her hands, down her arms and finally engulfs her entire body in a loving warmth. She's giddy and weak-kneed, but incredibly peaceful and calm. She feels weightless, like he's lifted her off the ground again. They finally part, reluctant to leave one another but knowing they never will, and she lays her head on his chest, eyes closed, and lets him hold her. _

"_Marshal?"_

"_Yes, ma'am?" He sounds a little breathless. Like he's in awe._

_She laughs. "You don't have to be so formal now."_

"_I'm sorry, Miss Mary Ann."_

_She laughs harder. "I mean it, Marshal."_

"_Well, then the same goes for you, too. Even though I'm the Marshal, I suspect you'll be in charge in the house."_

"_You're darn right," she says as she snuggles further into him. She's quiet for a long moment. "Marshal?" she whispers._

"_Yes, ma'am?"_

"_I love you, Gilligan."_

"_I love you, Mary Ann."_

She stands over the soup, idling stirring it with a wooden spoon, lost deep in thought. She had awakened that morning feeling like the most loved woman on Earth, filled with warmth and contentment that was alien to her since leaving home. It wasn't until she opened her eyes that she realized what year it was, where she was, and that the strong arms around her were just her tightly tangled blankets. Her heart sank and she hugged her pillow, feeling utterly embarrassed for herself.

She hears a noise behind her and she freezes. It's a rustling, footsteps scuffing through the sand. Careful, coordinated footsteps, not haphazard shuffling, a random planting of the feet and then hoping for the best.

It's the Skipper, eagerly following his nose to the first batch of real soup in weeks. The blight is nearly over and he is the happiest about it of them all.

It's the Professor, eager to educate her some more about the species and scientific name of the new plants Emily discovered.

It's Mr. Howell, eager to be served first, out of the soup line and out of his sunglasses, with an appropriate amount of soup in his bowl.

It's any of the other three, but it's not him because she can hear him coming a mile away.

So she barely looks up when the figure stops in front of her, kicking only a little bit of sand over the fire burning underneath her cooking pot. It isn't until she notices the bright red in the periphery of her vision that she glances up to find him standing there, perfectly composed, patient, and completely out of character.

She smiles when she sees him despite everything. She can't help it. "Good afternoon, Marshal."

He grins and tips his hat. "Howdy, ma'am."

"Any dreams last night?"

He shakes his head and pats his stomach contentedly. He never dreams on a full stomach. "Nope. Slept like a baby."

"I had a dream," she says before she can catch herself and this stops them both in their tracks. Her wooden spoon stills as his eyes widen and he inches toward her. Of course he's going to ask what it was about.

"Really?" he asks reverently and then yelps and jumps back as the hot ashes warm the bottom of his sneakers. He inches around the fire instead and scoots up next to her. "Who was I?"

He doesn't even doubt his presence in her dream. Should she tell him she dreamt of his dashing alter ego? Should she tell him she continued the love story he had unwittingly and unconsciously began? She looks up into his face, open and expectant and anticipating, and smiles. "You were you."

He relaxes. A pleased grin spreads across his face, but morphs straight into a frown. "That's it?"

She cocks her head to the side. "Isn't that enough?"

He averts his eyes and shrugs widely. "I guess." She goes back to the soup and he fidgets restlessly. He tangles his fingers together, rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, peers contemplatively into the soup pot. "Hey, Mary Ann?"

"Yes, Gilligan?"

"I've been thinking about our future."

She drops the spoon with a splash into the depths of the pot. She watches it sink, the handle sliding down the curve of the scorching hot metal, as her brain dissects this sentence. She finally looks up and meets his gaze as benignly as possible. "So have I."

"Really?" His face lights up brighter than she's ever seen before and she has to curl her toes in her shoes in a feeble attempt to root herself to the ground so she doesn't throw her arms around him. His eyes glint and his dimples sink into his cheeks and her heart almost explodes.

"You wanna go butterfly hunting today?"

Her heart stops. It sputters to a halt in her chest and it seems like an eternity before she feels it begin beating again, slowly. It hurts a little, but his exuberance at spending the day with her still makes her happier than declarations of pure unadulterated love from every other man on the face of the Earth.

And so she pushes a smile onto her face, reaches out to squeeze his arm, and whispers, "Always."


End file.
